


The Animal Hour

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Horror, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-24
Updated: 2004-09-29
Packaged: 2018-12-27 14:29:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12083007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Justin Taylor and Brian Kinneys Life is about to Drastically Change...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Ok If anyone has read the book The Animal Hour By: Andrew Klavan, Then you know where i got my idea from. Anyway...It has the same plot but im twisting it around...If you haven't read this book i suggest you do its really wonderful. If anyone is intrested in this idea that i have and want me to continue then, post your comments, if not i will take down the story...

* * *

Its holloween morning--and Justin taylor is about to find out that he has disappeared. At his office in Pitsburgh's finest law firm; a secretary chanlenges him. Excuse me,Sir.What are you doing here?You're not Justin Taylor.His coworkers shake their heads blankly.His boss threatens to call the police.Soon he is out on the street.desperate and alone.He has only one clue: a voice whispering in his ear that someone is going to be murdered that night--by eight o'clock,by the Animal Hour.

In Liberty Village, Brian Kinney groans awake after another night of debauchery to a call from his best friend Micheal novtney--His son gus has disappeared again.Reluctantly, Kinney sets out to track the kid down and finds instead the mutilated corpse of what was once a beatiful young man.The cops have only one clue:a blood soaked copy of Kinneys last book of poetry, The Animal hour:

The Animal Hour:Its the edge of twilght and the hieght of Holloween...the time when ordinary people are swept away into dreams that might be madness.As the hour Draws near,Justin Taylor and Brian Kinney are rushing toward a fateful encounter,when the masks will be torn away in a savage rendezvous with murder...


	2. The Animal Hour

Justin Taylor

 

It was going to be a lousey day. he was sure of that, even before he vanished.  
He felt rotten, for one thing. Sodden, as if he were coming down with the flu. The subway rocked and chatered its way downtown and the motion made his head feel like an accordion, going in and out. And it was rush hour. Monday morning, 8:45. Every seat on the train was filled. Commuters stood packed tightly in th aisle, pressed flat against the doors. He stood in the middle of them. He had his briefcase clutched tightly under his arm. He gripped the metal pole with his free hand. Gray shoulders, Black faces, Lipsticked mouths -- they pressed in close to him. The smells of them: sharp cologne; flowery perfume; sweat and shampoo and sickly sweet deodorant. They mingled in his nostrils. They clogged his brain. The train swayed. The bodies jostled him.  
'Oh man,he thought.this is going to be the worst.'  
The train stopped at Prince street. the doors slipped open on the long station's yellowing walls.The crowd on the platform struggled briefly with the crowd in the train. Faintly, over the boise, he heard the sound of Dixieland band. He caought a glimpse of it through the doors. a white man blowing a trumpet, his cheeks balloned.

"painted lips,painted eyes;  
wearin' a bird of paradise..."

'I know that song,Dad used to sing that song sometimes.'  
He pondered the songs title for a moment. Then The trumpet brought it home: "Nobodys sweetheart."

"it all seems wrong somehow.  
Cause you're nobody's sweerheart now."

 

The doors slid shut. The train jolted on the music had made him sad, nostalgic: like a glimpse of sunlight to the prisoner in his cell. He closed his eyes as the train rocked, as the people pressed against him. Leaning against the pole, he went on thinking about the weekend, only five days away, then friday night would come around and him daphne would go down to the village. Dress Bad. something tight, something black. Sit at a bar, at woody's maybe. Drink expresso, pretend to like it. Pretend they might meet some guys. or maybe they actually would. You never knew. Maybe some half scarey Village type, some poet or something, would take the barstool next to him. A shaggy-haired poet with a haggard face, a bulky sweater...  
"Canal Street,"the mortorman called over the speaker."Watch the closeing doors."

He was ashed this way and that by the tide of commuters getting off, getting on. he gripped his briefcase,gripped his pole. The train coughed and chugged away again. The black tunnels whispered at the window. He peered into the middle distance. He began expanding on this poet idea. He liked it.He could picture him. Abarrel-chested grizzly bear of a guy. A guy who thumped whe he walked. Talked in guturals, cursed all the time. But with these warm hazel eyes just for him--he was a regular puppy dog when he took hold of his shoulders, when he gazed down at him. You hadda love him in spite of everything.  
He stared into space as the subway sped on.'woof',he thought.  
Late at night, he would wake up in the little bed in his attic studio. He would lie quietly,naked under the single sheet. Oh, Mom would just have a fits if he slept in the nude at home.But mom would be far away. He would be in his faded gramercy apartment. His dad would be off somewhere getting drunk, complaining about his poor pathetic life.  
But his poet would be awake still. Sitting at his desk in the midnight garret. While he lay on his side, maked under the single sheet. Pretending to be asleep, watching him secretly. He would be hunched over his notebook in the circle of lamplight, his pen moving feverishly, his eyes bright.  
"This is the animal hour,"he would write.

The slow October flies, Despairing on the porch chairs,  
blink into the shards of the sun they see setting.   
Blue and the deeper blue ease into the air. . .

And he would wait and watch beneath the thin, stained sheet. And his poet would finally get tired. He would lay his pen down and rest his head against his hands. And then justin would stir, he would whisper to him:"Come to bed darling."He would peel the sheet back. His poet would laugh. He would stand up in his lumbering way."You were such a good little repressed irish catholic boy when i met you,"he would say."What have i done to you?"And then he would lumber toward him, ready to do it to him again.  
"City Hall," the motorman called.

He came to the surface with a goofy smile. 'Oh hell,letting his breath out.Justin Taylor's Romantic Fantasy Number 712.'The train stopped. The doors cracked open. The passengers flooded out into the station. He let himself be washed along.


End file.
